


Never Let Go

by skywalkersamidala



Category: I Medici | Medici: Masters of Florence (TV)
Genre: Canon Universe, Light Angst, Light Smut, M/M, Missing Scene, One Shot, aaaaalmost canon compliant, also i guess he's also cheating on lucrezia donati with francesco?, but she's still in rome, just another day in the life of hoerenzo, past relationship, technically infidelity since lorenzo has been proxy married to clarice at this point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:26:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27164521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skywalkersamidala/pseuds/skywalkersamidala
Summary: Against his better judgment, Francesco goes to see Lorenzo after Piero’s death, and old feelings are brought to the surface.
Relationships: Lorenzo "Il Magnifico" de' Medici/Francesco de' Pazzi
Comments: 11
Kudos: 43





	Never Let Go

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve always felt like there was a big shift in Lorenzo and Francesco’s relationship from episodes 1-2—Francesco in full arrogant smirky bastard mode—to episode 3-4—Francesco absolute putty in Lorenzo’s hands—so that + my disappointment that Piero’s death is forgotten immediately after it happens = this lil missing scene! This takes place right after episode 2 and is canon-compliant in terms of all the events in episodes 1-2, but has an AU backstory for Lorenzo and Francesco’s relationship.

Francesco had been doing his best to avoid Lorenzo since returning from Rome. Yes, maybe sometimes he went out of his way to antagonize Giuliano, and maybe sometimes he chose to antagonize Giuliano at a moment when Lorenzo was with him, like at the jousting tournament. Because loath as he was to admit it, there was a part of Francesco that missed Lorenzo and still longed to be close to him.

As children they had been each other’s closest friend, as teenagers they had been each other’s…not first love, it hadn’t been _love_ between them, just shallow youthful lust and infatuation. (Or so Francesco had insisted to Lorenzo the day he’d ended things and had insisted to himself every day since then.)

But Lorenzo was the first person Francesco had given his body to and vice versa, and even though several years and several lovers had passed since that first time, Francesco still remembered it clear as day. Still remembered his nerves and Lorenzo’s eagerness, how tentatively Francesco had touched him, unable to believe he was allowed such a privilege. The way his breath had caught in his throat when he saw Lorenzo gazing reverently down at him, as if Francesco was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

And he remembered all the times after that, all the secret nights tangled in bed together, stifling giggles at the exhilaration of sneaking around like this without their families’ knowledge. He remembered watching Lorenzo’s peaceful, beautiful face after he’d fallen asleep and thinking that if marriage was anything like this, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Knowing that marriage would be nothing like this, because it would be someone else and not Lorenzo lying next to him in bed.

There was a part of Francesco that still longed to be close to Lorenzo, but he wouldn’t allow himself to give into the temptation. So, he avoided him. Unless Lorenzo happened to be nearby for Francesco’s antagonizing of Giuliano, in which case Francesco resolutely focused on the antagonizing and definitely not on how blue Lorenzo’s eyes were or on the way his hair caught the light or on the perfect shape of his mouth.

(No, he most certainly had not gotten distracted while antagonizing Giuliano before the tournament and accidentally stared at Lorenzo for a much-too-long moment.)

But at Piero de’ Medici’s funeral, Francesco let himself stare. Let himself study every detail of Lorenzo’s appearance, re-memorizing the face he’d once known better than his own. Let himself feel sympathy for the tears in Lorenzo’s eyes, rather than derision or satisfaction. Francesco hated the Medici, he _did,_ but he remembered all too well how it felt to lose a parent.

He remembered how Lorenzo had been there for him then, or tried to, but then Jacopo had come to take him away.

After the funeral, Francesco couldn’t get Lorenzo and his grief-stricken expression out of his head. He shut himself up in his study and tried to focus on some paperwork for the bank, but he couldn’t. All he could see was Lorenzo’s brave façade belied by his bottom lip trembling as the coffin was lowered into the tomb.

It wasn’t right. Lorenzo was supposed to be carefree, innocent. Francesco didn’t like seeing him like this. Not because he cared about Lorenzo’s feelings, he told himself, but because it just went against the way things were supposed to be. Lorenzo wasn’t supposed to cry. Lorenzo wasn’t supposed to mourn.

Lorenzo wasn’t supposed to be made aware of how cruel the world was.

Before Francesco could think too hard about it, he was leaving his study and grabbing his cloak and heading out the door. His feet took him on the path to Palazzo Medici that he’d tread so many times when he was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen.

But this time Francesco knocked on the main door like a respectable guest rather than sneaking in through Lorenzo’s bedroom window. A servant let him in. “I’m here to see Lorenzo,” Francesco said, even as he wondered in the back of his mind what in God’s name he was doing.

“I believe he’s in his study, messer,” the servant said. “Allow me to go and fetch him—”

“No need, I know where it is,” Francesco said. “I’ll go to him.”

The servant looked like he was about to protest, but Francesco left the courtyard before he could. He headed in the direction of Lorenzo’s study and found the door firmly shut. Francesco hesitated. Why had he come here tonight? He was probably the last person Lorenzo wanted to see right now.

But then he remembered the way Lorenzo had looked at him at the emergency Priori meeting that night just after he’d gotten back from Rome, the little smile on his face as he’d said, _I forgive him._ All his talk about putting old feuds behind them. The hand he’d held out to help Francesco up after defeating him in the tournament. Not a word about cheating and the cut saddle, which he’d surely noticed by then, just a friendly offer of a truce.

And Francesco had rejected it. But he’d been feeling the stinging humiliation of public defeat at the time, whereas now, Piero’s death had made him more magnanimous than usual. So he steeled himself and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” he heard Lorenzo say.

Francesco opened the door and stepped into the room, then turned away to close the door behind him so that he’d have an excuse to avoid Lorenzo’s gaze for a moment longer. But at last he turned back and looked at him, and he saw that Lorenzo was sitting at his desk with a mess of papers spread out everywhere and dark shadows under his eyes, which were red and puffy.

Though currently he looked more surprised than tired or sad. “Francesco?” he said, getting to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

“I…” What _was_ he doing here? “I came to offer my condolences,” Francesco said. “I didn’t get a chance to at the funeral.”

Lorenzo’s astonished expression softened into a sad but sincere smile. “Thank you,” he said. “That’s very kind of you. I appreciate it.”

Francesco shrugged to say it was nothing. “Was that all?” Lorenzo asked after a minute of silence.

Francesco felt like such an idiot. Why had he come all this way late at night, just to offer condolences? Lorenzo must think him ridiculous. “I suppose I wanted to ask if you were all right,” Francesco said. “Well, of course you’re not all right, I just meant—I wanted to ask how you were.”

He expected Lorenzo to lie and say he was fine and send Francesco on his way. That was what Francesco would’ve done if their positions were reversed. But Lorenzo had always been so honest, so open about his feelings. “Not great,” he said quietly.

“Oh,” Francesco said rather awkwardly.

Lorenzo sighed and moved out from behind his desk, running his hand through his hair and pacing up and down the room. “There’s so much I have to deal with,” he said, and Francesco got the impression he was talking more to himself than to him. “The bank is a disaster, my father left so many debts unpaid, so many loans overextended. The Pope’s agreed to delay repayment of his tithes, but that will only buy us so much time.”

Francesco wondered if Lorenzo was too distracted and sleep-deprived to realize that he was sharing confidential bank information with the Medici bank’s biggest rival. But even as the thought occurred, Francesco knew he wouldn’t mention any of this to Jacopo, knew he wouldn’t try to use anything Lorenzo said right now against him.

 _Because it sounds like the Medici bank may collapse soon enough without my help,_ Francesco told himself, though deep down he wasn’t entirely sure that was the reason.

“And I’m married now, apparently,” Lorenzo said with a little laugh that came out sounding a bit more hysterical than he’d probably intended.

Francesco’s stomach jolted. “Married?”

“To Clarice Orsini, from Rome. We were married by proxy just before my father’s death, though Clarice didn’t return from Rome with my mother. God knows when she’ll be here.”

Lorenzo shook his head and came to a halt in front of his desk, facing away from Francesco as he placed his hands on the surface of the desk. “I never thought I’d be married so young. I thought I’d have years left,” he said. “But now here I am, married to a woman I barely know and who isn’t even here, my father gone, the bank hanging on by a thread, the whole family counting on me even though I haven’t got a _clue_ what I’m doing or how to fix any of this—”

His voice cracked and broke, and Francesco realized his shoulders were shaking with quiet sobs. Francesco knew he should go, this was a private moment, Lorenzo had probably half-forgotten he was even still here. Surely Lorenzo had no wish to break down in front of him; Francesco certainly wouldn’t if it was him.

But Lorenzo wasn’t him. And Francesco wasn’t entirely sure that he was himself either, because rather than mocking Lorenzo’s weakness or at the very least leaving without saying anything, he found himself stepping closer and touching Lorenzo’s shoulder.

Lorenzo went very still. Francesco had just realized what a horrible idea this had been when, to his astonishment, Lorenzo reached up to take his hand where it rested on his shoulder, still facing away from him. He laced his fingers through Francesco’s, his thumb gently grazing the back of his hand.

Francesco wasn’t usually a nervous talker, but he suddenly felt obligated to fill the silence. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “You’ll find solutions for everything. You’re one of the most capable people I know, Lorenzo. You always have been.”

“Thank you,” Lorenzo said, very softly.

At last Lorenzo turned around to face him, and Francesco awkwardly took his hand off his shoulder. But Lorenzo caught it before it fell back to his side, and instead he brought it up to rest on his cheek, closing his eyes and leaning into the touch and covering Francesco’s hand with his own.

Francesco’s heart was pounding. He had no idea what was happening right now, and he knew he should put a stop to it…but he couldn’t. His hands remembered Lorenzo too well, and on instinct he started lightly stroking his cheekbone with his thumb while his other hand came up to cup Lorenzo’s face.

Lorenzo opened his eyes again. Francesco’s breath hitched as he saw the longing written all over his face, the same longing that was making his own heart ache.

And between one heartbeat and the next, they were kissing. Francesco felt like his entire body was letting out a sigh of relief as his mouth moved against Lorenzo’s; honestly, he’d known the tension simmering between them ever since he’d gotten back from Rome was sexual in nature, he just hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself.

But now at last they were both giving in, now at last their bodies were reacquainting themselves after years apart. Lorenzo still remembered just the right amount of tongue that Francesco liked, still remembered how much he loved it when he played with his hair. His other hand let go of Francesco’s hand and instead moved to his waist, tugging him closer until they were pressed together, until Francesco was pinning him against the desk.

Francesco broke the kiss with a ragged gasp when Lorenzo started grinding against him. “Lorenzo,” he said, meaning it to sound discouraging, though it came out as more of a moan.

“Please,” Lorenzo whispered, chasing his lips to keep kissing him. “I need you. Please.”

Francesco knew Lorenzo was only looking for a distraction from his grief, knew this didn’t really mean anything to him. _Why do you want it to mean something to him? It means nothing to you either._

But he’d never been able to say no to him. He’d always been powerless whenever Lorenzo gave him that look that was calculated to get exactly what he wanted. Doubly so when it was accompanied by a hand slipping down his pants. Francesco let out a breath, a hot spike of pleasure washing over him.

“You’re married now,” he remembered a moment later, not sure why he was trying to find excuses not to do this.

But Lorenzo just chuckled. “Better make this count, then,” he said. “It could be the last time.”

“I never took you for the faithful type.”

“Then why are you so concerned that I’m married?”

Smiling despite himself, Francesco let go of his reservations and leaned back in to kiss him.

Lorenzo’s hands felt like heaven, and Francesco hastened to undo his belt and give him some relief too; he was rewarded by a delighted moan that made fresh heat pulse low in his stomach. Everything about this felt both wonderfully familiar and new and exciting. Lorenzo’s body was bigger now, more muscular, but the noises he was making were exactly like Francesco remembered. Francesco slid his free hand under Lorenzo’s tunic and shirt, running his fingers along his hard stomach muscles—those were new—while savoring the feeling of his lips on his—that was the same.

Francesco moved down to kiss Lorenzo’s neck, lightly nipping at his skin with his teeth and feeling a sort of possessive hope that there would be a mark the next morning. A particular movement of his hand made Lorenzo hum appreciatively and say, “You’ve certainly learned a few things these last years, I see.”

“Have I?”

“Oh yes. And I think you’ll find that I have too.” Francesco could _hear_ the smugness in his voice, the bastard, and his words were accompanied by a jerk of his wrist that had Francesco gasping.

“If you’re fishing for a compliment,” he managed, “you’ll have to try harder than that.” He felt Lorenzo’s throat vibrate with laughter, and then Lorenzo was nosing at his cheek until Francesco obligingly lifted his head enough that Lorenzo could capture his lips in another kiss.

Their kisses got increasingly heated and messy as their movements grew more desperate, the room filled with sighs and stifled moans. Francesco felt his body tensing with anticipation as he approached climax, so he started moving his hand faster, wanting to get Lorenzo there first.

Lorenzo cursed so loudly that Francesco (very belatedly) started worrying about being overheard, but those worries were quickly chased away by the thrill that ran through him at the sound of Lorenzo gasping his name like a prayer as he came hard, his hand on Francesco faltering in its rhythm as his free hand tightly clutched his shoulder. Francesco moved back just enough to take in the expression of bliss on his face, pride and desire sweeping through him at the thought that he was responsible for it.

Lorenzo resumed his movements as soon as he’d recovered, and Francesco closed his eyes and buried his face in Lorenzo’s shoulder as his hands moved to the surface of the desk to brace his weight. He was so close it was nearly painful, he just needed a little more to tip over the edge.

“Come for me,” Lorenzo murmured in his ear, his voice deliciously raw and fucked-out. “Come for me, Francesco.”

And then Francesco was there, muffling a groan in Lorenzo’s shoulder as he was overwhelmed by intense pleasure. When he came back to himself he realized Lorenzo was affectionately playing with his hair, and Francesco didn’t hate it nearly as much as he should have.

“That,” Lorenzo said, “was incredible.”

Francesco lifted his head to look at him and saw that there was a smile on his face—not just a post-climax smile, but one of real, tender fondness that made Francesco’s heart clench. “As good as you remembered?” he said, trying to sound like he didn’t actually care about the answer.

“Even better. You last much longer these days,” Lorenzo teased.

Francesco snorted. “As if _you_ were the paragon of stamina. I seem to remember you lasted about fifteen seconds the first time you fucked me.”

“Yes, well, I made it up to you afterwards, didn’t I?”

Also smiling, Francesco stepped away from him and cleaned himself up as best he could with the handkerchief Lorenzo offered, then redid his pants and smoothed out his cloak. All those lovers he’d had since they’d parted, yet none of them could compare to Lorenzo. No one else’s touch made him burn as strongly, no one else’s voice hypnotized him as thoroughly.

No one else filled his heart with this same sort of feeling, the feeling that he wanted to reach out and hold Lorenzo tight and never let go.

And it was that dangerous thought more than anything else that made Francesco’s smile fade. What the hell had he been thinking in even coming here in the first place, let alone allowing all of _that_ to happen? It had been one thing years ago when they were just boys having harmless trysts, but now, such behavior was unacceptable. Not merely unacceptable, it was impossible.

Lorenzo was a Medici. Francesco was a Pazzi. They could never be lovers. They could never even be friends, or allies, or anything other than enemies. Francesco should never have let himself forget that, and he should have taken advantage of Lorenzo’s grief and vulnerability to strike at him. But rather than doing so, Francesco had allowed himself to become the vulnerable one instead.

Then again, he always had been, ever since they were children. Lorenzo had always been his biggest weakness—and the real danger was that Lorenzo knew this full well.

“Francesco?” Lorenzo said now. “What’s wrong?”

Francesco raised his eyes to him once more, taking in the worry on his face; he’d clearly sensed Francesco’s sudden change of mood. “This ends here,” Francesco said shortly. “We’re not boys anymore, we can’t—I was mistaken in coming here tonight. We’ll go our separate ways and speak no more of it.”

Lorenzo’s face fell. He looked as heartbroken as he had when Francesco had first arrived, and Francesco tried to ignore how deeply it cut him. “Don’t be like this, Francesco, don’t shut me out again,” Lorenzo said, his voice quivering a little but still full of that steely quality it got when he was set on persuading someone to his line of thinking. “We care for each other. Why complicate that unnecessarily? Our families’ bad blood is no reason to destroy what’s between us—”

“There’s nothing between us,” Francesco cut him off. “There never has been and there never will be. What do you need me for anyway? Between Lucrezia Donati and your new wife, you have plenty of others to warm your bed.” He meant the words to sound harsh and spiteful, but instead they came out hurt and bitterly jealous, to his embarrassment.

“Is that really how you think I feel about you? How can you doubt how much you’ve always meant to me?” Lorenzo said, so softly, and God, Francesco _ached_ to break down and go straight back into his arms. It would be so easy. So perilously easy.

But he managed to hold firm. “That’s exactly what you say to Lucrezia. What you’ll say to your wife,” he replied. “You make everyone believe that they’re special to you, when really the only person you care about is yourself.”

“Francesco—”

“I’ll see you at the Priori tomorrow, _Medici,”_ Francesco said, spitting the name out like a curse, and he turned on his heel and stalked out the door without giving Lorenzo time to say another word.

He couldn’t help but be disappointed when Lorenzo let him go without trying to follow.


End file.
